snow, in the morning
by highboys
Summary: Sealand still misses some things about being young.


**Title:** snow, in the morning  
**Fandom:** Axis Powers Hetalia  
**Characters:** Sealand + Nordics  
For **obaa_chan** at **nordic5_xmas**

It starts to snow in the morning. Sealand wakes up to the touch of a flake on his eyelid, and his eyes flutter open with the weight of a world-weary man. He's forgotten to shut the window last night, it seems. He wants to burrow under the covers for the rest of the morning, but he has things to do and little time and there is no one to pet him awake, nobody looming in the doorway to serve as an omnipresent figure of guilt.

When he squints through the semi-darkness, he thinks he can imagine it. Sweden with his arms crossed as he leans against the opened door, no trace of impatience or disapproval at Sealand's reluctance to leave the warmth of his bed. He'll leave the dismay to Finland, who will fuss and fret and perhaps threaten him when the food gets too cold, but he'll play the role of the watch dog well.

There's no Hana-tamago here either, Sealand thinks, stirring. He presses his palm against his pillow, the cloth scratchy against his skin and smelling of fabric softener. There's no annoying visitor from Denmark or a puffin leaving a gift on his bed spread, no creepy spirits that will poke him into submission when Norway feels like noticing (annoying) him. Blessed silence, that's all.

He yawns and stretches, scrambling upwards to lean over and shut the window. He watches the snow fall and cover his driveway. Why am I always left alone, he writes on the glass, and watches the words evaporate in the air with the slightest exhalation.

He can't get used to it.

* * *

There's tea in the cupboard, somewhere. He doesn't bother to find it when he knows that no one will come for a visit. Do you know what the loneliest thing in the world is? Does it compare?

There's nothing in his fridge, either, save for a box of leftover snacks Sweden left the last time he was here. Sealand doesn't have the heart to touch it; he can't stomach the idea of using it all up. He wants to call Sweden, sometimes, in the dead of the night, and bug him to send over more food, more clothes, more furniture, anything, and he won't cry, no, because he isn't a little kid anymore. Strength means not having to cry when you most want to, he tells himself, but it gets harder to lie when he hears Finland's voice in the other line, ever gentle, ever kind, and something in him breaks.

Today, he feels the loneliness more than ever. There isn't much to see, now, when his neighbors have gone home to England for the holidays and the rest of the population at hand is enjoying the Caribbean, the Bahamas, anywhere warm enough to make them forget how sad it feels to have no one else in sight. "I have to work harder," Sealand mutters to himself, and a stray cat looks at him, confused. No one will ever get it.

He finishes sticking the last card to the last gift he has to send over. It reads _ENGLAND, YOU SUCK_, but he'll never tell his brother that he only writes these things half-heartedly, because then, at least, he knows he will feel some anger and resentment, and it's better to receive those emotions than nothing at all. It's the only constant he'll have to count on. He packs the gifts in a paper bag and pulls on the shawl Finland gave him, years ago, when he was still a boy. It doesn't fit so well anymore, but he thinks he can still remember how Finland had put it around his neck and given him a kiss on both his cheeks, his lips warm and chapped and just - he just -

Sealand shuts the door behind him, locking it with a precise _click_.

He'll never get used to it.

* * *

On his way home from the post office, he orders a cup of coffee to stave off the cold. It feels a little comforting when he exchanges words with the cashier, little nothings of _happy holidays, thank you for your patronage, it's cold, isn't it?_ and it's easier to pretend that he isn't the loneliest boy in the world.

"When I get home," he muses aloud, sipping his decaf as he steps around a snowman blocking the sidewalk, "I'm watching reruns of Batman and pulling the phone cord." The resolution sounds so easy when he says it, now, but he knows that when he curls up on the sofa with pillows as poor substitutes, he'll end up watching cheesy Christmas movies and crying every time Santa comes.

"You sure you're not going to jack off to porn?" Someone asks, cheerfully, and Sealand freezes. His heart clenches, and it's too much to hope for, but -

He turns around, just in time to catch Hana-tamago, who throws herself at him with the kind of reckless abandon that makes his smile fall a little and his hands shake.

"Denmark, _please_," Finland says, sounding a little nervous, as if expecting Sealand to be baited and start a fight, but Finland forgets that Sealand has changed and everything has changed but, _fuck_, looking at them, he thinks it's still the same.

"M'rry Chr'stm's," Sweden says, quietly, following at a more leisurely pace. Iceland doesn't look to pleased with the weather and Norway still freaks the fuck out of him with his fairies, but they're there, all the same.

"We figured you didn't want to be alone," says Finland, and Sealand brings his hand up to his eyes. When he pulls away, he sees the glint of water on the tips of his fingers.

"Hey," laughs Denmark, "stop crying!"

"You guys are so," _precious to me_ - _kind_ - _I love you_, "_mean_," Sealand says, biting words but he can't get rid of the warmth choking his throat, the tightening of his chest.

It's still snowing, outside, but Finland's fingers against his cheek - they're warm.


End file.
